Tuesday, March 13, 2012

Drowning

You ginger step
like an old woman.
Every movement
begs for stillness.
Every inhalation
drags and scrapes
like a gravedigger's shovel.

The acorn long buried in the bronchi
is blooming its breathless death,
and every cough and wheeze brings the crops closer to harvest.

I've watched you string along your mortality
like a child's pull-toy since I was a girl of eight.
I've greeted the hooded stranger at the door and
felt the tingle of his till-we-meet-again kiss on my cheek.
I've felt his dry touch against my pig-tailed hair.

After so many floods of grief and terror,
I've gotten pretty good at treading water.

37 comments:

What a fabulous poem. You've articulated for me something I've never been able to confront in my work. I watched my father run out of air from emphysema. I know that indelible pain of bearing witness to this. The poem itself is so very strong, your touch sure, each image fits and is compelling. xxxj

Just amazing what you did with the words, MZ. Such insight, so much drowning we all have to do in this life. Third stanza makes the whole poem revolve around the narrator and her intimacy with things a child shouldn't have to know.

This is excellent writing. I know any kind of critique is bad form for dVerse, but. I would only suggest tweaks to two words: Make crops singular: crop and delete the "that" in the second to last line. Very vivid, powerful, wonderful poem. All the metaphors are right on.

If only the memories could have left too...wipe the slate clean. My troubled and feeble mind found great nuances with this write. Forced to envision the old dude from Poltergeist though...he scares the crap out of me no matter how old I get!